


John Sheppard's School of Projectile Weaponry

by context_please



Series: Atlantis Episode Tags / Codas [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Tag, Explanation, Fluff and Humor, Gen, John likes dragging people around, Mostly friendship because the boys are oblivious, Rodney McKay's sass, episode s01e12 The Defiant One, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/context_please/pseuds/context_please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Doctor Rodney McKay arrived in Atlantis, he already knew how to use a gun. Admittedly, he wasn't the best in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Sheppard's School of Projectile Weaponry

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this may have gotten a little out of hand. I was re-watching SGA when I suddenly realised that Rodney was running around with a P-90, and I was like "when did THAT happen?!" There was no explanation for Rodney's sudden ability to shoot well, and I thought he deserved one, so here we are. If we all remember, he couldn't hit the side of a barn in the beginning, so I had to justify how this happened. 
> 
> Also, I enjoyed writing this way too much. Rodney is so fun.

When Doctor Rodney McKay arrived in Atlantis, he already knew how to use a gun.

Admittedly, he wasn’t the best in the world, but he liked to think he could hold his own in a firefight.

He may have been… not wrong: Rodney McKay was NEVER wrong.

No, he’d… miscalculated

 

 

 

It was a few missions into the Atlantis expedition that the issue… came up.

They’d been going through the database, looking for civilizations that had been listed by the Ancients, for potential trading partners. Granted, the database was over 10,000 years old, but the more they encountered the Wraith, the more they realized they were greatly in need of more resources. So he, being a key member of Sheppard’s team and _invaluably_ important, had been forced to step through the gate – and taken from his vital work on power modification – to wade through flea markets on worlds who had obviously never even _heard_ of sanitation.

Rodney recoiled as _yet another_ uncivilized _caveman_ sneezed all over his arm. ‘Eugh! Get away from me!’

Sheppard’s voice floated back to him from the front of the group; ‘McKay, these people are nice enough to let us into their market –’

‘Yeah, they’re so nice they just have to go spreading all of their hideous, Pegasus-mutated germs so that when we get back to Atlantis I spread a horrible disease that causes gangrene-like symptoms and everyone eventually gets to the point their –‘

‘McKay, we’re not going to contract mutated germs,’ Sheppard said in that _stupid_ Southern drawl, and who even had a drawl these days? He just sounded like some constipated farmer-boy from Texas who barely passed second grade, and why would he even keep the accent, it was so frustrating and Rodney bet it pissed Sheppard off really –

‘Come on,’ Lieutenant Ford said, and since when had Sheppard stopped talking and moved on to the large building in the center of the marketplace? Ford was dragging him along by his arm, and by the time he pulled it out of the man’s grip he was certain it was going to bruise and it would be _so_ purple this afternoon –

‘Doctor McKay,’ Teyla interrupted, ‘your arm will be fine, but you need to stay close to us. These markets are very busy –‘

‘Yeah, and filled with malicious germs and –‘

And that was when it happened.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, _completely_ nowhere, they were surrounded by men with knives and clubs that were awfully spiky and would definitely hurt, and wouldn’t they really, really hurt?

They didn’t even get a chance to size each other up before Sheppard was firing his P-90 into the air, empty shells clattering to the ground and the attackers – bandits? – were recoiling sharply. But their puzzlement lasted only seconds, and then a bandit was coming towards him, and he took his gun and fired wildly.

Within seconds his clip was empty, and he froze when he saw his potential attacker was completely unharmed and the bullets had fired anywhere but him – over his head, on the ground, in the crates to the left, and Rodney would have thought that with probability theory, he should have hit the man at least once.

Then Sheppard raced past him, yelling, ‘Run!’ and hauling him back to the gate by the back of his tac vest.

 

 

 

With a low sweeping sound the doors to his quarters opened. The lights came on immediately and he made his way to the bed, taking off his jacket and throwing it somewhere across the room.

Weir had chewed them out like gum at the debriefing, and he’d thought that by now she would have been more understanding about the trouble that off-world teams managed to attract without even trying. He might be able to understand annoyance, but he’d felt anger had not been justified.

McKay had sat in the briefing room, trying to combat a huge headache and a sense that he’d… _miscalculated_ – and to top if off, Weir had literally grounded Sheppard for the week. She had ranted at him for almost an hour, and McKay almost felt sorry for him, almost, but only because it wasn’t him that was in trouble.

It had surprised Rodney to see how well Sheppard had just rolled over and taken it. He wasn’t head of the rumor mill, by any means, but it was kind of hard to ignore the whispers about Sheppard’s old record and the black mark growing on it – about why he had even _been_ in Antarctica when every person on the base knew what an excellent pilot he was. They said he didn’t respond well to certain orders, or certain leaders, and least of all to the military, even if he was an excellent and well-loved leader himself.

The way he let Weir take it out on him told Rodney that Sheppard had a great deal of respect and empathy for Atlantis’ commander.

After nearly an hour, Sheppard had simply stood up, donning that annoying half-smile that Teyla had told him meant that the Major was extremely uncomfortable, and said, ‘Elizabeth, I have no idea who these people are and what they wanted with us.’ And then he’d let the smile drop to show the most serious expression Rodney had ever seen, and said in a low voice, ‘But I swear to you, I _will_ find them.’

And so they’d gotten free, Weir’s steam having completely run out, and now Rodney was ready to sleep for a good ten solid hours without having to save the galaxy twice. After what he’d done already, he felt Pegasus owed him that.

But _of course_ life and the universe hated him, because when he turned he was met with the slim figure of Major Sheppard leaning in his doorway. Scowling.

Rodney instantly scowled back, ‘I’m busy.’

‘With what, standing?’ the Major drawled back.

‘What do you want?’

Sheppard obviously took this as “oh, yes, come in John, you’re most welcome in my private quarters, and why don’t we have a lovely chat around a bottle of whiskey while we’re at it?” and stepped right into his room.

‘I want to know,’ he said, voice slowly rising, ‘where _the fuck_ you learned to shoot!’

‘Uh…’

‘You told me! You told me you could shoot! You said, “John, don’t worry, _of course_ I can shoot a gun”!’

McKay snorted. ‘You do the worst impression of me I’ve ever –‘

Sheppard’s face darkened into a fully-fledged glare, and a sound somewhere between a cry of frustration and a wild growl escaped him. Before he knew it, John Sheppard was forcibly hauling Rodney around for the second time that day, and he _had_ to stop doing that! 

 

 

 

‘Again!’ 

Rodney could barely hear him, the huge earmuffs obliterating all nearby sound and making him feel stupid and off-balance.

When Sheppard had first dragged him to the firing range, he’d protested every single step of the way. And how the Major had even managed to get him down there was a mystery – that guy was unhealthily skinny, did he not eat anything ever? – but he had and now Rodney was beginning to admit that maybe he may not have been the best shot in the galaxy.

Rodney squeezed the trigger again, the gun in his hand recoiling sharply. This time the bullet hit the bottom corner of the paper man, and he glanced over at Sheppard, who was wearing his “still absolutely shit, but at least he can aim now – somewhat” grimace.

He pulled the trigger rapidly, emptying the clip and managing to catch two more bullets on the paper.

But when he turned to Sheppard his smirk dropped. He pulled the earmuffs off and said, ‘I hit it that time –‘

‘You hit the paper, McKay,’ he drawled. ‘It doesn’t count.’

‘Well what are you going to do then, Buck Rogers?’

Sheppard reached out and took the gun from him. ‘Do you even know what kind of gun this is?’ he demanded.

Rodney rolled his eyes, answering, ‘It’s a gun.’

The Major heaved a put-upon, frustrated sigh. He held the gun up. ‘This is a Beretta M9, entry-level handgun, 9 mil. Minimal recoil, accurate firing; easy to shoot,’ he said, smirking at Rodney.

‘Yeah, rub it in,’ he snapped.

‘It’s not the gun’s fault, McKay. You’re the problem.’

Rodney was frozen for a good few seconds, and Sheppard instantly plowed on before he could be given a verbal lashing.

‘The problem is, you’re scared of the gun. You’re scared of using it,’ he said, and then, gentler, ‘When you pick one up your hands shake.’

Rodney kept his mouth shut. He hated talking about feelings – come on; feelings! He was a scientist, for God’s sake.

Sheppard’s face softened, and Rodney liked it a lot better that way. ‘It’s okay to be scared, McKay,’ he said gently, ‘But you don’t need to be scared of this gun. When I’m done with you, I guarantee, you’ll be better than some of my Marines.’ His expression turned smug.

Rodney snorted. ‘What is this; John’s Sheppard’s School of Projectile Weaponry?’

The Major was all-out grinning this time. ‘Damn right: and _you_ are my first student.’

‘Great,’ Rodney groaned as he was handed the gun. He adjusted his grip and realized that his hands actually were shaking – huh. Hadn’t noticed that before. He tried to stop the tremors, and kind of succeeded, but there was still a little feeling deep down inside niggling at him.

He had expected Sheppard to leave – for the entire thing to be one massive joke, actually, and for the man to leave him all on his own with the “Beretta” for company – but he didn’t.

No. Instead, Sheppard’s hand came up around his own and tugged the gun down so that it was facing the ground. He felt, rather than heard, the Major come up behind him, practically making a Sheppard-blanket, and draping himself over Rodney’s right side. His left hand was on Rodney’s other shoulder, steadying it against the tremors, and he felt the hand around his guide the Beretta up. It was slow, but eventually they were pointing the gun at the target.

Sheppard’s hand was solid and warm, surprisingly strong against his own, and the feel of him so close should have made Rodney tense, but instead the tension was draining minutely out of his muscles, and they held that position for a full minute. It didn’t feel any longer or shorter than necessary – just sixty seconds of stillness.

It was just after that when the Major leant in closer and said quietly, ‘When you’re ready.’

He didn’t hesitate – not like he had every time before – and the bullet ripped through the paper target, squarely through its heart. The noise was shocking, but he had been ready, anticipating, and when the shot fired he hadn’t even flinched.

A moment later, Sheppard let go of him and stepped back. When Rodney glanced over, he was just the same as ever, still with that ridiculous hair, and he received a nod. He raised the gun again, and this time he hit the target’s stomach in one straight shot.

When he lowered the gun, he realized his hands had stopped shaking.

 

  

They continued the sessions every day for a month. They would go down to the firing range every two days and spend half an hour there, firing his Beretta.

Rodney had pointed out that there was limited ammunition for these guns – maybe he shouldn’t be using so much of it, but Sheppard had just said, ‘None of my Marines actually use Berettas, it’s only the scientists that do, and they never need them.’ And apparently that meant it was absolutely fine.

In the beginning Rodney could only hit the target well twice a clip, but by the time they had finished he was hitting vital spots every time.

Even though Sheppard still infuriated him – and probably would forever; there are some people you never get used to – he found that the man was a surprisingly good teacher, especially when it came to weaponry.

Maybe it was his extensive knowledge of possibly every gun alive – and how could one man even know that much about guns, and why, when all you had to do was shoot one and everything was fine, and who needed to know that it fired badly in headwinds or that it was a long-range one or that it only worked on small children?

But it also could have been his surprising patience with Rodney. It had taken a week before he’d managed to get half a clip to hit the paper, but each time Sheppard would stand there and give him silent encouragement and a verbal lashing. At least he didn’t say “you shoot like my grandma”, which Rodney probably did, and he wouldn’t be overly shocked to find out she was probably better than him.

Rodney suspected he was slowly becoming an emotional sap, because every time he struggled, Sheppard would grind him out, but there was something in the Major’s eyes, and his silent encouragement, and Rodney was beginning to realize it was complete and absolute faith in him. And really, since when had he become even remotely emotionally perceptive?

It didn’t matter, because he was getting better, and now he was a reliable part of the team when it came to shooting a Beretta.

 

 

It was months later that Rodney realized that training in the use of guns was probably the most important thing he could do in un-scientific situations.

They’d traced the signal to the planet, found an ancient Wraith ship and boarded it. The crew had been fed upon: eaten by their own kind. Then they’d been attacked.

They lost Abrams the first time: Brendan had been fed upon, but he was still alive. And when the Wraith had gone to the surface – after the ‘Jumper – the Major had followed.

Rodney stared down at Brendan Gaul’s body. The man had been old – his life sucked mostly out of him by the Wraith, his skin hanging in loose flaps upon his face and his skin blotched with colour, limbs unresponsive and fingers cold in death – but he hadn’t expected something like this.

The sight of bright red blood against his temple and the wall almost drove Rodney to throw up all over the floor of the ancient Wraith ship. In his dead hands, the gun rested, silent and deadly, but not tempting him like it had Brendan. He took off.

Above him, the sun beat down like nothing he had ever felt, including that God-awful trip to oh-so-sunny Nevada that had been his experience in Area 51. This time it was like there was no moisture in the air at all, and he could practically feel the radiation damaging his skin already; he had fair skin and it did not react well to sunburn.

He traced the path they’d taken back to the Puddlejumper, and soon he reached where the action was unfolding.

Rodney fired. Sheppard had been tossed to the ground behind the Wraith like a toy doll, impacting the sand with a hard thump. ‘Major!’ he yelled once he’d gotten the Wraith’s attention.

‘McKay!’

‘What do I do now?!’ He was scared shitless, and his heart was pounding rapidly, palms so sweaty he was afraid of dropping the gun on the sand, and then the sand would suck it under and the Wraith would feed on him, and oh God.

He glanced behind the ancient Wraith to see Sheppard, looking between him and the Wraith, but he caught Rodney’s eyes and just stared into them. The John Sheppard Insanity Scale shot up at least five points, bringing it to eighty-nine out of one hundred, but he couldn’t look away.  In the Major’s eyes was that same gleam, that same expression of absolute and complete faith, even as he was yelling out, ‘Keep firing: everything you’ve got!‘ and there was the nod.

That was when Sheppard’s training kicked in.

In seconds he was rapidly firing his clip into the Wraith, watching the black blood leak out onto its torso, and hearing its gurgling, but it kept coming, even after he emptied his clip.

The panic was back in seconds. ‘Okay, what now?!’

‘Reload!’

Fumbling with shaking hands, Rodney hurried to reload the clip, and why were these things so damn fiddly? Why was it so hard to fit a shape in a hole? He was gasping heavily, and when he looked up he saw the Wraith, torn between who to approach first; who was the most danger.

Rodney finally managed to reload, and he fired again, not missing a shot as the Wraith slowly limped towards him, jolting with every hit but otherwise unaffected by the Beretta. Within seconds he shouted, ‘No more bullets!’

Sheppard hauled himself up, approaching the Wraith and hitting it damn hard on the back. The Wraith turned, swinging his arm for Sheppard, but the Major ducked and landed a blow on his torso that looked more like a feeble push, and why would he be pushing a 10,000 year-old Wraith like a little girl, that was just –

The Wraith’s second swing contacted, and Sheppard was thrown through the air yet again. But this time, little golden lights flew towards the Wraith and began to swarm around it, wanting for something, and the Wraith was instantly distracted, reaching out and crushing them in his fists.

He barely heard Sheppard’s yell of, ‘McKay, RUN!’

Rodney instantly scrambled back, looking for something to hide behind, and he barely got there in time before there was a massive explosion and the Wraith vanished in a massive fireball of death.

When it was all over, Sheppard gave him that soft look, heavily overlaid with exhaustion and tinged slightly with pride.

  

 

 

Three days later, Sheppard was at his door when he opened it to go to the labs.

He was wearing the usual grey pants and turtleneck shirt of the base, and his hair was even more ridiculous than yesterday, and Rodney vaguely remembered Sheppard telling him one night when they’d gotten drunk on the Athosian wine Teyla had brought back with her, that his hair actually naturally did that and it was always worse in the mornings. What was more important, though, was the fact that Sheppard was smiling at him with a gleam in his eyes and his “let’s fill Zelenka’s shower with detergent and confetti” expression.

‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘What do you want?’

Sheppard smirked. ‘Did you forget our session this morning?’

‘I can shoot now. I don’t need any more practice,’ Rodney snapped.

‘Oh, Rodney,’ Sheppard said fondly, ‘You should know that there are multiple stages in John Sheppard’s School of Projectile Weaponry.’

Rodney just thought, “life and the galaxy hates me; John Sheppard, too” and said, ‘Nope, sorry, too much genius to waste even twenty minutes away from the power distribution grid modifications.’

Sheppard grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and hauled him down the hallway, toward the firing range. Rodney had learnt not to be surprised by the strength held within Sheppard’s visibly non-existent muscles, and he only struggled a little – even if complaining loudly did effect the eardrums – until they reached the transporter.

‘McKay, you’ve modified that grid a million times; there’s only so much you can do.’ Sheppard gave him a smile meant to be sweet, but it held many promises of torture. ‘But you can _always_ learn to shoot a gun.’

 

  

 

The next lot of guns passed pretty quickly, actually.

Sheppard would never admit it, but Rodney was actually good at shooting a gun now, and he rarely missed. Of course, Sheppard had no problem at all taking the credit for that, and Rodney supposed that was okay. After all, everyone knew he had not started well.

He passed through pistols once every two weeks, and Sheppard would beam with pride every time, and he looked so much better when he did. It made Rodney feel like he’d achieved something important. Though he would never admit it, Sheppard had been right: he could always learn to shoot a gun, and he needed to be able to protect himself.

Every time he picked up a new pistol, Sheppard made sure to mould him to the right position, teaching him by feel, and Rodney loved those moments where they would just stand for a minute, pressed tightly together, and afterwards he was relaxed and comfortable with what he was doing.

Really, he hadn’t even remembered the name of most of the pistols, he went through them so fast, but he definitely remembered his last, and still current pistol.

He’d forgotten what model it was, but he would never forget the fact that it was a Glock. Even Rodney had to admit that it was of fine make, powerful yet sturdy: efficient, balanced, and not that easy to use.

Sheppard had been so proud when McKay had mastered the Glock, a pistol that was usually reserved only for more skilled members of the military; he’d told Rodney it had been well above standard issue, and Rodney had bragged for a week about it.

On the firing range, Sheppard smiled more, laughed more, and they had fun together. Outside of it, Sheppard still mocked him about being a geek, but didn’t really try to cover the fact that he himself was in the top 99 percent of intelligence in the Earth population. It was easy to say they were comfortable around each other and enjoyed their company.

When they weren’t watching movies – and _why_ Sheppard insisted on watching Back to the Future every time, he had no idea, because it was an inaccurate use of physics _and_ math, and he should know that – they were debating about comic books and other Earth-related things.

At some point during this, he had taken to calling his new friend John, only sometimes Sheppard or Major. He didn’t remember when it had really happened; they had just started calling each other by their first names, and every day their bond seemed to strengthen.

Rodney had noticed that John had this smile, this manner, just for him. He treated Rodney like a friend, and Rodney was almost certain that they were best friends then.

Sometimes he caught John looking at him with intense, focused eyes, like he would survey the landscape on a mission, and other times John just looked on with a gentle smile and soft eyes, and that was the expression that Rodney liked to see the most on his handsome face.

 

 

 

As they came into their third year of the expedition, John met him at the firing range for their weekly session and handed him a P-90.

He’d fired one before, of course, when it was the only thing available, but that had been a long time ago – when he’d still been a crap shot, and missed almost all of the time.

But this time he was pretty good – and he managed to hit the target a lot. He became used to the noise, and found the P-90 was a pretty damn good submachine gun.

At the end of their ten minutes, he turned and grinned at John. The man was smiling back at him, that proud grin with the hint of softness that Rodney was now an expert at spotting.

They just looked at each other for a heartbeat, and John’s smile became fractionally bigger, reaching out with a strong, steady hand to clap his shoulder. ‘You’re a natural,’ he said, and took the gun with his other hand, setting it down and leading Rodney out of the firing range.

It was as they were walking down the corridors of Atlantis, John saying, ‘Now, let’s go fill Lorne’s shower with detergent and confetti, and while we’re at it, let’s seal off –‘

It wasn’t until then that Rodney realized John never gave him that fake, uncomfortable smile anymore.

 

 

  

They were gearing up for yet another dangerous mission, as every mission of the Atlantis expedition seemed to be, when John strode into the room, a little late, as usual.

Rodney had once joked that the military had forgotten to teach him about punctuality, but John had responded by pointing out that he had to literally drag Rodney to most briefings, ten minutes late, too, so he couldn’t say a damn thing.

Ronon was checking his radio, and Teyla had just finished field-stripping her pistol and P-90.

John strode in with a smile on his face, and his traditional, ‘Hey guys. Let’s try to not blow up the town this time.’ It was a phrase that John repeated before the beginning of every mission, ever since he’d first met Teyla on Athos. Now it was like John’s version of a pep-talk, and they knew they were in trouble if he didn’t say it. It was a routine thing, and they all underestimated how vital the phrase had become to their mission prep routines.

John took his tac vest and strapped it on over his uniform shirt and started going through its pockets, checking for all the necessities. Apparently satisfied with what he found, he grabbed a P-90 and loaded it, clipping it to his vest, and holstered his pistol after he’d checked it.

Ronon and Teyla headed out to the ‘Gate room, and it was just Rodney and John finishing up their preparations alone.

Satisfied that his Glock was all good, Rodney made to leave, but John called out to him, ‘Rodney, wait a second.’

He turned, and as he did, John approached him and set a P-90 in his hands. Rodney stared in wonder at the submachine gun, and then up at John.

The Colonel was smiling at him, that soft, gentle smile that Rodney loved so much, with complete and utter faith shining in his eyes, and as John clipped the gun proudly to his vest, Rodney’s lips quirked up at him, ever the good student.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this way back in May of 2013... it's been so long.


End file.
